


With Great Stride

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6070135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her voice is a clear note that knocks the rubble from between his ears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Great Stride

She’s got lovely hands.

 

Maryden only smiles when Krem mentions them, regarding her own short nails, a few pale scars. “They’re quite large,” she tells him, like a confession. “I was always told as much.”

 

It feels like dangerous territory. Krem isn’t good with words, not always, but he can tell something’s amiss. Cautiously he treads on, tankard tipped precariously between his hands. “Yeah,” he agrees, watching her face for… things. Shifts. Subtle nuances. “It’s nice. _They’re_ nice. You’ve got those… long fingers and… they’re so clever with the lute.” He swallows when Maryden’s face doesn’t let on so much as a whisper of her emotion. “Big isn’t so terrible, is it? Only I’d have to tell the chief, and he’d be crushed.”

 

She does smile at that, red lips parted over white teeth.

 

“And what of yours?” she asks, folding her big, lovely hands in her lap.

 

“Mine?”

 

Krem glances down at his own hands, swathed in leather. When she reaches out to take one, he thinks he might catch fire where they touch. She looks to tug the glove from his hand, and he hastens to shove the tankard between his feet to help her with the buckles. He knows his palms are sweaty from the heat, and his morning drills, and her attentions. But he lets her take it just so, cringing at the state of himself.

 

He keeps his nails short, too, though she must see from their ragged edges that he bites them. They’re rough with use, and several shades darker than hers - that’s easy to spot, even here in the dim light of the tavern.

 

He’s got his own scars, too.

 

“A soldier’s hands,” Maryden says, tilting her head down. Closer. Maker, she smells like springtime. Like violets. Like soap. Doesn’t she sing in Val Royeaux as well? That’s where she belongs - surrounded by art just as lovely as she, white stone buildings and golden tapestries.

 

“I’m a soldier,” he agrees, clumsily. His fingers flex in her palm. Her smile deserves the full light of day.

 

“I know.”

 

She lets him tug his glove back on, and helps him with the buckles.

 

Krem doesn’t stop her when she rises from the table beside him. He doesn’t pull her down with him again to unwrinkle that odd line in her brow that tells him she’s never been told that her large hands are lovely, either in spite of or because of their size. He doesn’t take her hand and press a kiss to every wide inch, worthy of praise.

 

He does manage to kick over his ale as he imagines it, though. And he thinks about it all damn night.

 

* * *

 

She’s got hair that shines in the light of the sun, tied up prettily in all those braids and knots. It’s nothing like the long, thick waves of it down her back that tussle and fall over her shoulder when he startles her in the kitchens.

 

“Apologies,” Krem says, holding his hands up. Maryden presses a hand to her chest, lifting the other with a smile.

 

“Cremisius,” says she, and breathes, “no need. Were you hungry as well?”

 

“Restless, more like,” Krem says with a few cautious steps closer. “But I could eat.”

 

They’re not alone, despite the hour - he supposes the Winter Palace’s kitchens are never truly still. A pair of elves keep to themselves on the far end of the room, making preparations for the day ahead. Maryden stands at a counter with a cup of tea and a loaf of bread wider than her waist.

 

She cuts a piece as thick as two of the chief’s fingers for him and slathers it with strawberry jam, and all Krem can do is make eyes at the shape of her in her nightclothes.

 

They’re not alone, though, and she keeps glancing at him, so he forces himself to keep his eyes on her hair.

 

He’s never seen it down. It suits her as well as up. He tells her so, because… well, because she’s lovely in so many ways. She has to know it, but it can be nice to hear. She thinks so too, if the honest shape of her smile is to be believed.

 

“You’re very kind, Cremisius,” she tells him, and gives him the slice of bread. It’s cold and a little chewy, no doubt left over from yesterday’s meals, but Krem’s not the picky sort. She’s looking up at his own sleep-mussed nest, no doubt to return the compliment. He laughs, self-conscious, and drags his clean fingers through it.

 

“Not at all. And thank you.”

 

She has nothing but stockings on her feet, which is far too intimate to note, so Krem valiantly doesn’t notice her long toes, or the fine arch of her feet, or the delicate shape of her ankles.

 

No. He’s very close. Every time she turns her head, her long hair shifts, and a gentle wave of her clean scent wipes his every thought clean like a slate.

 

They speak, though quietly, and finish half the loaf before she bids him goodnight. He walks her to her room, almost as an afterthought, and she allows it.

 

The way Krem trails at her heels like a dog would catch him an unbelievable amount of shit from the Chargers, but he figures they’d eat their words if they were the ones rewarded with a gentle smile and a brief kiss on the cheek when the courtesy was paid.

 

Krem spends most of his night staring at the ceiling. All he can do when he closes his eyes is picture soft waves, tumbled down her back, caught in his fingers. She liked his fingers, he thinks.

 

Thinks it probably too often. He’s a walking corpse by the time Rocky comes to bully him out of bed.

 

* * *

 

  


Her mouth is… amazing. From the curl of it when she smiles, to the lilting music she makes, to the line of her teeth, to how it feels when it presses against the corner of Krem’s. He’s stunned, a little - there’s only so decorum one can maintain when four years of the fantasy one tucks away into the mental chest of Impossible Hope is cracked open by reality's skeleton key.

 

Just a hint. Just a peek. Just a soft kiss pressed to-and-not-to his lips near the end of the celebrations.

 

The Inquisitor rests within the inner circle, relieved of one arm but alive, and as it has been since the heroic return, everyone is in motion.

 

Everyone but Krem, whose eyes are wide on Maryden where they’re hidden away behind a golden velvet tapestry. There’s dancing and singing and chatter, even as close to dawn as they are. The Orlesians love a good party. Firelight brightens the garden, as well as the palace, but shadow casts privacy on their hiding space. Her hair’s braided and curled in a wreath around her head, and she draws her long fingers from his jaw to his chest. She’s had a pretty red wine blush on her cheeks all evening. Krem knows - he’s been watching. It’s redder now, spread all the way to her ears.

 

“Is this alright, Cremisius?” she asks.

 

Her voice is a clear note that knocks the pebbles from between his ears. “Definitely,” he tells her, and leans in for a fuller, clumsier kiss.

 

She smells and tastes like wine, this close - the good stuff. The stuff she deserves. She parts her lips and meets him, fingers curled in his breastplate as he pulls her body closer. He can barely hear it, but it’s there - what is undeniably music bubbles up from her chest in sighs with every shift of his hands against her.

 

Krem really, _really_ likes her mouth.

 

And her hair.

 

And her hands.

 

He likes them all, and everything in between, and he’s sure he’ll like loads more when they’re both a little more sober, and he’s courted her properly, and he musters up the courage and permission to paw his soldier hands over her minstrel body.

 

She kisses like victory, but Krem is certain he’s the one who’s won.

**Author's Note:**

> Trans Maryden tho
> 
> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


End file.
